THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 
i6j 
Londe, bronzed with travel and hard though 
he was, felt a sudden pain at his heart. He 
pushed through into the little hall to meet 
Mme. Regnier, the proprietress. She held 
out her hands. 
“ But it is Monsieur Londe at last, then ! ” 
she cried. “Welcome back once more to Paris,” 
“ Mile. Felice ? ” he asked, eagerly. 
Mme. Regnier became suddenly grave. 
“ Ah, that poor child ! ” she exclaimed. 
“ She has gone. It is eleven months ago 
since she came into my little sitting-room one 
morning. £ Madame/ she said, ‘ I have 
finished with music. T have finished with 
Paris. It is of no use. Never will they make 
a musician of me. Herr S vein geld has told 
me so himself. There are other things.’ She 
left the next day.” 
“ But do you know w r here she went ? ” 
Londe demanded. 
Madame shook her head. 
“ She left no word.” 
“ But why on earth w'as that ? ” 
Madame shrugged her shoulders. 
“ Mile. Felice,” she said, “ was discreet 
always, and careful, if one can judge by 
appearances ; but she was far, far too beau- 
tiful for Paris and to be alone. The men I 
have thrown almost from the doorsteps, 
monsieur, the men who would wait till she 
came out ! For a week there was a motor-car 
always at the corner ! ” 
Londe set his teeth firmly. 
“ Do you think,” he asked, “ that Mile. 
Felice has found a lover, then ? ” 
Mme. Regnier once more shrugged her 
shoulders. 
“ All 1 can say is,” she pronounced, “ that 
whilst she was here mademoiselle was, of all 
the young ladies I have ever known, the most 
discreet. Whether she has stolen away to 
escape, or the other thing, who can tell ? ” 
Londe went to Herr Sveingeld. The old 
musician did not recognize him at first. Then 
he gripped him by the hand. 
“ I remember you perfectly, monsieur,” he 
declared. “ The little lady— she gave it up. 
She was clever enough, talented in a way, 
perhaps, but without genius. She worked 
hard, but there was little to be made of her. 
Unless they are of the best, there is no call 
for girls who play the violin, especially with 
her appearance. A public dibut would only 
have been a nuisance to her.” 
“ Do you know where she has gone ? ” 
Londe demanded. 
“ I have no idea,” Herr Sveingeld replied. 
Londe braced himself for the question he 
hated. 
<c Do you know anything of any admirers 
she may have had ? ” 
Herr Sveingeld shook his head. 
“ Why should I ? ” he asked. “It is not 
my business. I think only of music. As for 
my pupils, they are free to come and go. 
They can do what they like. I am not the 
keeper of their morals. I am here to teach 
them music.” 
So Londe wandered back to his hotel. He 
spent three days in aimless inquiries leading 
nowhere. Then he took the train to the 
South. He stayed at an hotel in Hy£res,and 
the next morning he hired a motor-car and 
drove over the mountains and along the 
straight, white road which led once more 
to the hills. He leaned over and touched 
the chauffeur’s shoulder as they came nearer 
to the place where he had first caught a 
glimpse of the little pink sunshade. The car 
slackened speed. Lie looked around him. 
It was all very much the same. Then the car 
came almost to a standstill at a corner. They 
met a market-cart, filled with huge baskets of 
violets, and on a seat by the side of the 
driver — F elice ! 
Londe left the car whilst it was still crawling 
along. Lie stood out in the road* and Felice 
looked down at him and gave a little cry. 
She set her feet upon the shafts and sprang 
lightly into the road. The only word that 
passed between them was a monosyllable, 
and yet a hope that was almost dead sprang 
up again in the man’s heart. Felice was very 
plainly dressed in trim, white clothes, a large 
straw hat, and over her dress she wore a 
blue smock such as the peasants wore in the 
field. Tn her eyes was still the light of heaven. 
“ But tell me,” he begged, “ what does it 
mean ? 1 went to Paris. No one could tell 
me what had become of you.” 
She laughed, the laughter of sheer happiness. 
“ Listen,” she explained. “ What was I 
to do ? Half of the money was gone. There 
was no hope for me. I can play the violin 
like others — no better, no worse. And — 
don’t laugh — but Paris was a terrible place 
for me. There were so many foolish people. 
They gave me so little peace, and it would 
always have been like that. And then one 
day I read an article in one of our reviews, 
and I had a sudden idea. There was three 
hundred pounds of your money left. I came 
back. My father had died. The little house 
and an acre or so of vineyard belonged to' me. 
Well, I hired more. I am a market gardener. 
Behold ! ” 
She pointed to the fields. Londe followed 
the sweep of her fingers. Everywhere was an 
